Nell practically devoured the food, so different from their British feasts of roasted goose with bland, congealed sauces. Angelo’s food, with its rich spices, practically danced on her tongue. She ate until she thought she would burst amid boisterous laughter and spontaneous stories from the old country.
Rosa pushed away her plate. “We have to save room for panettone and pandoro.” Sweet breads, she explained, but they were rich and heavenly, the panettone filled with raisins and candied citrus peels, the pandoro a tall star-shaped cake dusted with powdered sugar. Nell indulged in both.
As the food and dishes were cleared, Nell noticed a table set with linen, china, and dishes of food. When she asked Felice if she was expecting more guests, Felice nodded. “We leave a place for the Madonna and Christ child. We would be so blessed if they came to taste the gift from Angelo’s kitchen. If we don’t leave the table set, it would bring dishonor on our family to forget the reason we have to celebrate this most wonderful occasion, no?”
The afternoon was spent with more chatter, the children shooed outdoors to play in the street. Not a single girl or woman in the crowd would be what Nell would call a potential customer with their plain cotton or wool dresses, heavy stockings, and shoes that had seen better days. Each one, though, wore a jeweled brooch or rhinestone necklace, some bit of sparkle, to dress up her attire. The day with the Salvatores entwined Nell’s heart—a day to tuck in her memory. It wasn’t home with Mama and the family, but it wasn’t bad.
“Buon Natale. Merry Christmas!” Felice said as she kissed both of Nell’s cheeks again as she was leaving. “And the hat, I will save it for my Ricky’s wedding.”
Nell laughed and told her she should wear it and not save it. As Nell climbed the stairs, she thought of leaving out a plate with a piece of Quentin’s toffee in case the Madonna and Christ child should make a visit.
A note from Jeanette was propped against the electric toaster.
Going upstate for a few days. Mother thinks it will help Father’s disposition. I called Greta and asked her to tag along. Be home Friday.
Jeanette
PS: Your mother called. I told her where you were and to try again later.
Five minutes later, the phone rang.
“Mama, I’m so glad you called.”
“Nell? Are you all right?”
Nell assured her she was, that she’d had a lovely day with the Salvatores. “How was your Christmas?”
Her mother was full of tales about the snow that had fallen and the tree they’d chopped at Uncle Eli’s horse farm. They had tied it to the top of Granville’s roadster to take home to Louisville.
Mama said, “Iris has had the loveliest parties. A young man from Lexington has shown her an unearthly amount of attention. It wouldn’t surprise me a whit if he proposes before her season is over. I’m so sorry you’ll miss her grand ball day after tomorrow. She was counting on you being there.”
“I know, Mama. But it’s been frightfully busy here. Have her write and tell me all about it. What about Mittie? Has she b-behaved?”
Her mother’s tinkling laugh sparked across the miles. “Oh, you know Mittie. Always the life of the party. So much like her mama that it’s frightening.”
“Aunt Sarah?”
“Oh, the stories I could tell. It’s been a lovely Christmas. The only thing missing was you.”
“I know, Mama. I missed you, too. Next year. I promise.”
Nell put on the kettle, and when her tea was made, she changed into her nightie and wooly socks and propped herself up with pillows in the bed. She had a stack of magazines to look through. Now that delivering the hats for the wedding party was all that was left to do, it was time to be thinking about spring designs.
She tossed aside a couple she had already read and picked up the next one on the pile. Couture Design. She thumbed through it, making mental notes until she came to a section in the middle. Her breath caught—a write-up of the runway show with Soren with photographs. She flipped the page and saw all of the ensembles they’d done. She couldn’t stop looking at them. Her designs. And Soren’s. In a magazine. Captions and a rave review.
Some of the freshest creations from New York this fall.
Soren Michaels is a designer extraordinaire.
Millinery from Oscar Fields the perfect added touch.
She read each word, savoring them all. It was only a few paragraphs, but the reviewer was lavish with praise. A quote nestled on the last of the four-page spread said, “Oscar Fields has outdone himself by hiring Nell Marchwold, a hatmaker of British ancestry. She’s a bright star on the fashion horizon.”
Her name was mentioned. Her name. Mr. Fields said he would make her a star. She wasn’t there yet, but after she’d read the pages a dozen times, it began to sink in. Time will tell. As she drifted off, she smiled. It was her boss’s favorite motto.
Chapter 14
Mr. Fields made no mention of the magazine nor did Soren call. Perhaps it wasn’t as spectacular to them as it was to her. And it was old news as she’d bought the magazine when she was looking for ideas for her client’s wedding. She was bursting to show Calvin, but something held her back. He would start in on the Nellie March line again, and even though her heart ached for that, the nod needed to come from Mr. Fields.
Still, Calvin picked up on her merry mood. “You’re quite the sparkler nowadays. Don’t tell me Mr. Fields gave you a big bonus.”
“Nothing like that. The wedding party hats have been delivered, and I’m just more relaxed.”
“I was hoping it was because you were going to ask me out for New Year’s Eve.”
She gave him a quirky, fake smile. “Don’t you just wish?”
“So do you or do you not have plans for New Year’s Eve?”
“Maybe. I told Jeanette that if I survive this week, I might do something with her. Greta’s going to a party with Spike and some of their acting chums, so she won’t be coming. Jeanette would like it if you went with us, I’m sure.”
“A double date then?”
She punched him on the arm and said she had an appointment with the Benchley girls.
“Maybe you could see if one of them is interested in a sharp, good-looking, but lonely guy from the other side of the East River.”
“Come along and ask them yourself.”
“They’d just think I was a kibbitz. Moving in on your territory.”
She shook her head and left Mr. Lonely Heart doodling at his desk.
When she entered the consulting salon, she was surprised to find Mr. Fields with Mavis Benchley, the girls nowhere in sight. Mr. Fields pulled Nell into his grasp and presented her like he was showing off a trophy. “Here’s our girl.”
Mrs. Benchley gave her a hug. “Oscar’s been telling me how happy the bride and her mother were with the hats you did.”
“They did turn out well, but it’s kind of him to say so. Are Daphne and Claudia here? I thought the appointment was for them.”
“Oscar sent them to the fabric room to pick out colors. We’re in a bit of a pickle. Daphne’s been invited to a masquerade party at the Hornbilts’ mansion. She’s going as an exotic belly dancer—gracious, I don’t know how the girl comes up with her ideas—but never mind about that. She needs a headdress of some sort.”
“Certainly, I can do that. And Claudia, will she need something, too?”
“Just Daphne this time. Claudia will have to settle for going to the club with her father and me.”
Mr. Fields nodded. “Excellent, my dears. I’m leaving you in Nell’s capable hands.” He kissed Mrs. Benchley lightly on the cheek.
When he’d gone, Mrs. Benchley shook her head. “Such a sweet man. And a tragedy that he’s never remarried.”
“Did you know Anna, his first wife?”
“Not personally. From what I gather, she was beautiful and talented, but timid as a church mouse. He would be quite a catch for some lucky woman.”
Nell shuddered to herself. Today he’d b
een charming. Maybe he’d turned over a new leaf. There was always hope, but then his best behavior always surfaced when Mrs. Benchley was around. Jeanette’s story about the way Mr. Fields treated Anna was evidently not widely known. Or it could be that Jeanette had it wrong. She was known to exaggerate.
They found the girls giggling, Daphne before a mirror swiveling her hips. She was a natural, and within the hour, they’d chosen a filmy peach fabric that would fall from a jewel-encrusted headpiece.
Daphne said, “I’ll need it by Friday. Can you do it?”
“Most certainly.” It would be simple after the relentless pace of the last few weeks.
As they were leaving, Mrs. Benchley whispered to Nell, “Looks like you’re getting along grand at the speech clinic.”
“Dr. Underwood’s been very patient with me. And helpful. Thank you for the recommendation.” She was doing well. Only a mishap here and there.
“Anytime, my dear.”
Nell rested against the counter when they left. Who was she kidding? Her stammer had improved, but she’d pushed the last session with him out of her mind because of the unsettled feeling it induced. The thought of going back in January stirred up a new swarm of doubts.
* * *
Jeanette squealed when Nell told her she’d invited Calvin to go with them on New Year’s Eve. “You’re a doll! But, oh my goodness, I wasn’t thinking. Are you and Calvin…I mean, you’re not an item again, are you? I don’t want to be a fifth wheel, you know.”
Nell put her hands on her hips. “We were never an item. He’s a friend, that’s all. In fact, I’m hoping the two of you hit it off. Shall I tell Calvin to meet us at Lily’s Place like before?” She blew on her tea, then took a sip.
Jeanette winced. “No, there’s this new place—the Emerald Jungle.”
Nell sputtered. “Emerald Jungle? Really?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Well, no, but it sounds…different…daring. Where is it?”
Jeanette scratched the back of her head and twisted one side of her mouth. “Harlem. And before you say anything, it’s not dangerous. Greta and Spike went right before Christmas and said it was the absolute berries. Jazz music and dance contests. There will even be prizes for the New Year’s Eve bash.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I invited Calvin then. You’re going to need a dance partner.” And bodyguard. Nell shuddered and finished her tea and asked if Jeanette’s dad enjoyed the trip to the country.
“He did. We all did. At least he’s breathing better and promised to take it easy on smoking. Thanks for asking.”
Perhaps Jeanette needed to dance to escape reality.
On New Year’s Eve, Calvin called for them in a taxicab rather than meeting at the dance club. As the cabbie honked and weaved through midtown and beyond the lights of Broadway, the air pulsed with expectation. Flashing lights in yellow and green splayed across the front of the Emerald Jungle when the car pulled to the curb and the driver opened the door for them. Ahead of them, a couple emerged from a swanky car, the woman wearing a long mink coat, the man in a tuxedo. Nell was glad she’d worn her buttercup dress and new coat.
Large windows flanked the double doors, people shifting like shadows behind them. Once they’d purchased their club cards, they entered the main room through a velvet curtain tied back with a serpentine cord. Music and smoke filled every corner, giving a blue haze like looking through filmy georgette. Once Nell’s eyes adjusted to the light, she was surprised at how large it was. A room full of smartly dressed patrons from young people like themselves to paunchy men with bald heads and matronly women waving cigarette holders, their laughter tinkling like brass chimes.
Long tables with linen cloths were set out in rows on either side, leaving the middle for chorus girls dressed in glittery outfits and ostrich plume headdresses. They were in the midst of a routine when a waiter showed Nell, Jeanette, and Calvin to places and gave them a slim cardboard menu with a dozen hearty appetizer choices and drinks. They ordered sandwiches and colas, then leaned back to watch the performers. The air buzzed with frivolity as the dancers high kicked in their finale.
A pock-faced man with hooded brows sat next to Nell, his suit jacket taut across his back. He leaned over and said, “Ain’t nothing like some good old jungle music to get your feet a tapping.” He winked and said he had a little refreshment if she was looking to have some fun. He leaned back and puffed on a cigar the size of an overgrown carrot.
“Thanks. We just came for the music. And the dancing.”
“That’ll be coming up soon, I reckon. You save a dance for me, ya hear?” He sounded oddly out of place. Not a New Yorker. One thing she knew. She wasn’t dancing with a stranger, even though she had to admit, it was hard not to feel the beat of the music.
Jeanette had no such reservations, and when the dancing started, she went with the first guy who asked her to fox-trot. Calvin whispered to Nell, “You want to give it a whirl?”
Nell realized she hadn’t thought through the evening very well. She thought Calvin and Jeanette would just gravitate to one another, and she could sit demurely at the side and watch while she enjoyed the music.
Calvin’s eyebrows were raised, waiting for her answer. It was only a dance, not a marriage proposal. She put her clammy hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor. Calvin was easy on his feet, his embrace sure as he guided her through the motions, but Nell’s joints were rusted hinges, stiff and out of practice. By the third song, the rhythm felt more natural, the steps easier. She’d never be nimble-jointed and footloose like Jeanette, but the tension fell from her shoulders, a sense of glee bubbling inside.
The bandleader announced a short break, and as they headed to the table, Nell was glad to see the waiter had delivered their order. The cola fizzed as it wet Nell’s parched throat.
The stranger from earlier gave her a nudge. “You cut a pretty fine rug.” He put a hand on his stomach and belched, the fumes of alcohol and cigar smoke making her eyes burn. “And you promised, sweetheart, you’d save a dance for me.” He wiggled his eyebrows and reached for his glass.
Nell plowed into her sandwich and finished off her cola, turning toward Calvin so she wouldn’t have to look at the stranger or smell his rancid breath. Calvin’s hair shone like an iridescent raven, a trickle of sweat inching down his temple. Nell reached up with her napkin to blot it away.
Calvin talked around the food in his mouth. “So now you’re my mother? You want to wipe the drip of mustard from my chin, too?”
“If you’re messy, I just might have to.”
Jeanette returned out of breath and grabbed her soda. “Is the food good? Did you hear? The dance contest starts at midnight, and I still don’t have a partner. The last fruit I danced with mangled my toes.”
Nell pointed to Calvin. “Here’s your perfect match. You two have all the moves—I’ll be the cheering section.” Her stomach felt queasy, but she was still thirsty. The chorus girls pranced onto the staging area, dipping and twirling, waving exotic fans this time. Nell wished for a breeze to waft her way, her own head feeling like it was spinning. Instead of a breeze, though, it felt as if the air grew thicker. Smoke filled. Cloying at her throat.
She asked Calvin if he’d signal the waiter to bring her another cola as the dancers were making their final bows. The crowd clapped and cheered, then jostled past, elbowing one another to get to the dance floor. The waves in Nell’s stomach now swam in her head. She was certain she couldn’t dance if her life depended on it.
Jeanette was on her feet, and Calvin gave a desperate look toward Nell. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I dance with Jeanette?”
Nell shooed them away and drained the last of her cola, which left a bitter aftertaste on her tongue. The waiter arrived with another cola and she wished she’d asked for ginger water.
The foul-breathed stranger draped his arm around her. “Looks like the little lady has a taste for giggle water. Can I freshen your drink?” He held
up a flask.
She reached for her glass to put her hand across the top, but misjudged the distance and knocked it over, the cola spreading into a murky stain on the linen cloth. Realization dawned like a punch in the gut. She shot a glance at the disgusting man, shrinking from his grasp. A piece of lettuce was lodged between his two front teeth, his smile as green as her stomach.
She bolted from the table. The nerve of him to lace her drink with bathtub gin or whatever his particular preference of bootleg liquor was called. She needed air, but the front door seemed furlongs away, and the man might follow her. She yanked the arm of a cigarette girl in a skimpy costume and asked for directions to the ladies’ room, then made a beeline for it.
Inside, the smell of urine and vomit assaulted her, the lavatory stained brown and no towels to wash her hands even if she’d dare to touch the faucet. Apparently the amenities out front didn’t extend to the bathroom facilities. She stood in the middle of the floor and wrapped her arms around herself, tears hot behind her eyelids, her head stormy like her stomach. She swallowed to keep from heaving, then jumped. A noise, like a gunshot, shook the building. Plaster rained down on her. Screams followed, the cacophony of the orchestra screeching at first, then silent. Shouts echoed beyond the walls of her confinement. What on earth was happening?
She debated whether to stay where she was with the door bolted or venture out. What if Jeanette had been shot? Or Calvin? What if a gunman decided to fire more shots and she walked into a barrage of bullets?
“Fire! Fire!” Shouts and more screams.
She would burn to death if she stayed in the bathroom, so she unbolted the door and peeked into the hall. The burly stranger from her table was shouting orders to secure the holes. Whatever did that mean?
She flattened herself against the wall, hoping he wouldn’t see her, but he turned suddenly and met her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he grabbed her arm. He hissed in her ear, “You! You didn’t see or hear anything. No one messes with Louie and lives to tell about it.” He gave her arm a wrench as he shoved her toward the dance hall.
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 11
